Chapter 5 - The Woman at Pier 19
Rain hammered the roof of the warehouse at Pier 19.
I arrived at 11:58.
Enzo drove.
My men remained several blocks away.
Ferretti had demanded I come alone.
I had never been particularly obedient.
Clara had been ordered to stay at the estate.
She had never been particularly obedient either.
I discovered her crouched behind the rear seat when we were halfway through Manhattan.
“You've lost your mind.”
“You have the key because of my husband.”
“I have the key because your daughter stole a wedding favor.”
“She didn't steal it.”
“She relocated it.”
Enzo coughed to hide a laugh.
At Pier 19, I entered alone.
Bianca sat beneath a hanging industrial lamp.
Her wedding dress was dirty.
Mascara streaked her cheeks.
“Lorenzo.”
I stopped ten feet away.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Did Ferretti take you?”
Her eyes shifted.
That was all I needed.
“No,” I said quietly.
Bianca began crying.
“I'm sorry.”
The warehouse doors slammed behind me.
Men emerged.
Don Ferretti stepped from the darkness.
Perfect suit.
Silver hair.
Same tiny smile.
I looked at Bianca.
“You weren't kidnapped.”
She shook her head.
“I didn't know they would threaten you.”
“Did you write the letter?”
“Yes.”
“Did you mean it?”
Silence.
“Bianca.”
“No.”
That hurt more than if she'd said yes.
Because cruelty born from truth was easier to understand than cruelty performed for strategy.
Ferretti applauded slowly.
“Touching.”
“What do you want?”
“The drive.”
“I don't have it.”
His smile disappeared.
“Then you came here to die.”
“No. I came here because I wanted to understand something.”
“What?”
“Why Marco was afraid of my family.”
Ferretti's face changed.
Barely.
But enough.
“You found his letter.”
“Some of it.”
“Then Clara has become more troublesome than expected.”
I leaned forward.
“Say her name again like that and this conversation ends badly.”
Ferretti laughed.
“Look at you. Abandoned this morning, defending another woman tonight.”
Behind him, Bianca looked down.
Ferretti approached.
“Marco discovered something inconvenient. Our families weren't at war because of territory, Lorenzo. We were kept at war.”
“By whom?”
“Your father.”
“My father is dead.”
“Exactly.”
Ferretti tossed a photograph onto my lap.
My father.
Marco.
And a third man.
Enzo.
I stared at it.
My stomach dropped.
Ferretti saw my reaction.
“Your loyal butler knew.”
I heard movement behind me.
Enzo entered.
Gun raised.
I turned.
For the first time in twenty-two years, I didn't know whether the man approaching me was family or enemy.
“Is it true?”
Enzo stopped.
“Yes.”
The word nearly broke something in me.
“You knew Marco?”
“Yes.”
“Did you betray my route?”
“No.”
“Then who did?”
Before Enzo could answer, gunfire erupted outside.
Clara.
Of course.
She had used my men to create a diversion.
Lights shattered.
The warehouse plunged into darkness.
I heard Bianca scream.
Enzo pushed my chair behind a steel column.
“Stay down.”
“I hate when people say that.”
“You're remarkably difficult for a man who can't run.”
Shots cracked through the warehouse.
Then Clara appeared.
She slid behind the column.
“You're welcome.”
“You were supposed to stay in the car.”
“You were supposed to avoid getting kidnapped at your own wedding.”
“Fair.”
Enzo stared at us.
“Is this really the moment?”
“No,” Clara and I answered together.
We moved.
Ferretti's men retreated toward the loading dock.
Bianca remained tied to the chair.
I reached her first.
She looked at me.
“I'm sorry.”
I cut the ropes.
“Go.”
“Lorenzo—”
“Go.”
She hesitated.
Then ran.
Clara watched her leave.
There was no jealousy on her face.
Only sadness.
Police sirens sounded in the distance.
Ferretti escaped by boat.
Back at the estate, Enzo finally told us everything.
Twenty-four years earlier, my father and Ferretti had created a secret alliance to prevent a third organization from taking control of the city.
Then my father discovered someone inside that alliance was stealing millions and arranging murders to keep both families fighting.
Marco discovered the same conspiracy years later.
“Who?” I asked.
Enzo placed the flash drive into my laptop.
A list appeared.
Payments.
Dates.
Deaths.
Then one name repeated more than any other.
Adrian Vitali.
My uncle.
The man who had raised me after my father's death.
The man who currently controlled half my legitimate companies while I recovered.
Clara whispered, “Lorenzo.”
I stared at the screen.
A payment dated two years earlier was labeled simply:
L.V. ROUTE — $500,000.
My ambush.
Adrian had paid for it.
But beneath that entry was another.
Dated three days ago.
B. MORETTI — WEDDING EXIT.
Bianca had been paid.
And the final entry was scheduled for tomorrow.
C. BENNETT + CHILD — CLEANUP.
Clara stopped breathing.
May you like
Rosie.
Someone had already been paid to kill Rosie.
